


adventures in ikea furniture

by guardianoffun



Series: Sure would be a bummer if he got shot and died... [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, IKEA Furniture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: George perhaps stares longer than is polite. He can’t be blamed though, really, not when there’s all that sitting there hefting all that wood about.
Relationships: George Fancy/Ronnie Box
Series: Sure would be a bummer if he got shot and died... [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695859
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	adventures in ikea furniture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iloveyoudie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/gifts).

> this is my favourite ship now. go with it. everyone is alive and its the 21st century. george fancy is an idiot bisexual.

George can’t quite say how it got to this; Ronnie Box on his floor, shirtless and sweating over a bed frame. It seems a million miles from anything that makes sense. Though, he thinks, not a lot about these recent weeks have made sense. Two weeks ago, as summer finally found Oxford, he had been living in the cramped quarters of the station house living the fairly isolated life of a constable still fresh out of uniform. He sucked his DI’s dick _ once _ \- okay more than once, but all over one evening - and then the flat he was looking at comes through, and _ then _said DI buys him a pint after work to celebrate and it all just sort of spirals from there. Things are all going right for him finally; he hopes it’s not the calm before the storm, that nothing tragic happens to counter all this. Sure would be a bummer if he got shot and died. He laughs that thought off. No, life is finally looking up for George Fancy, just not at all in the way he had planned.

Last night had been another accidental evening out with Box, only this time, Jago and his other mates hadn’t tagged along. It had been the two of them, and more beer than was sensible and a kebab on the way back to George’s new flat. It was state at the moment, still all unpacked boxes and piled suitcases, but it was closer the Box’s. 

They’d fallen onto the sofa together, slapped some rubbish on the tv and picked apart their dinner till the show ended and the credits rolled dark across the screen. Box slumped comfortably into his sofa, and George didn’t realised he’d fallen back against him till it was too late. Box’s thumb was absently drawing circles on his neck, and his heart beat a steady song beneath George’s head. The only coherent part of George left said he should sit up, which he did, but Box seemed to take offence at the space between them. He took one long look at George, then pulled him in by the jaw and snogged him silly. 

Things got slightly blurry after that, but George has a vauge enough recollection. Better than vague, actually. Quite nice, if he says so himself, and a great way to start a lethargic sort of Saturday; Box in his bed (on his mattress on the floor) complaining about back ache. 

He gives Box a sly grin and says if he’s willing to cobble the bed together they can try it out _ properly _. He doesn’t expect that to work, but it does. Some macho part of Box needing to be flexed perhaps. So George goes to make breakfast. He slings bacon under the grill as Box slices into the flat packs leant up along the wall. After laying them out, Box follows the smell of bacon and watches George cobble together a fry up. In the end it consists of two slices of bacon and a half tin of beans each, because the bread has gone green and George is yet to bother filling his fridge. The open plan kitchen and living room should have been a fairly airy space, but is crowded now with groaning boxes of all George’s worldly possessions. The table itself is crammed between the sofa and an ironing board, making for a rather intimate breakfast. 

They eat together, and it is far too domestic. George can see, too clearly, the way Box’s throat moves as he swallows, the sharp line of his jaw. Strong hands curling around a fork, jabbing at bacon with more force than necessary. George hurries through his plate so he can get away and find a drink. 

After their plates are dropped in the sink, Box leans out of the kitchen window and smokes whilst George downs three cups of coffee and flicks through his phone. There’s no chatter, bar George asking if he wants a drink every time he refills his cup, getting a short grunt in response each time. Evidently Box is not talkative first thing in the morning.

He seems to wake up when the food finally hits though, stretching his arms and popping his shoulder as he stands. 

“Right let’s get this sorted then,” he mutters, cuffing George’s shoulder as he squeezes through the narrow space. Draining the last of his coffee, George drags his feet along after him, rather reluctant to start. There’s a reason he’s been sleeping on the mattress for five days now. Two heads might be better than one though, so he slumps down beside a pile of screws and starts sifting through them. He lets Box pull the frame into place and hands over the fiddly bits whenever they’re needed. He tries to help, honestly, but by midmorning, Box has slapped his hand away enough times he doesn’t bother to pick up the screwdriver again_ . _He finds his speakers instead, plugs them in and lets Radio One float through the house, not sure the two of them are at the sharing-music-tastes stage of it yet. He’s not sure what stage they’re at, actually. Long past DI and constable that’s for sure but Box doesn’t seem the type for labeling something that’s happened over a span of less than a week. 

They’ve managed to keep themselves respectable at work, but now that George has seen him heft a king sized mattress out of here alone, he’s not sure he’ll be able to look at all those tight shirts he wears to work quite the same anymore. Not now he’s seen the way those biceps move under loose fitting tees, that’s for sure. 

Deciding not to think on that for too much longer, George disappears back to the kitchen and makes a pot of tea. He hovers in the door when it’s done, two cups in hand as he waits for Box to slide the slat in his hand into place. 

He takes the tea with a flash of a smile, downs half the cup then leaves it on the empty windowsill and cracks open the window. There’s sheen of sweat on his head, and his hair’s a little damp. The chain around his wrist glints in the sunlight as he flicks his hair back, and it’s incredibly distracting to watch those fingers curl through dark waves. 

George shivers. If anything he’s too cold so he digs a pair of socks out of a suitcase - no, he hasn’t built the wardrobe yet either - whilst Box turns around and whips his shirt off. 

George perhaps stares longer than is polite. He can’t be blamed though, really, not when there’s all _ that _ man sitting there hefting all that _ wood _about. He pulls his eyes away from the hypnotic rolling muscles across Box’s back, to the shirt left on the floor. He picks it up and runs his thumb across the hem of it. Still warm, and when he lifts it, still smelling like yesterday's cologne and this morning's cigarettes. He wrinkles his nose; he’s never taken to smoking himself, but there’s something about the smell when attached to Box that makes it almost bearable. It smells like last night, like being pinned to a wall and having his soul splintered by better sex than he’s had in months. 

He shakes himself - that’s not something he should dwell on. He can’t go thinking of Box’s hands pinning him down every time he smells smoke, it’ll make pub nights hard. Not to mention work. Box’s office means he has to walk past George already, and if he comes back from a break smelling like that, in the middle of the day - there he goes again, wildly inappropriate thoughts to be having about the bosses desk. Not that people haven’t done that, he knows for a fact Morse had that pathologist over the photocopier last Christmas. 

No. He drops the shirt over the back of the chair that he has crammed under an empty desk. He really must stop, the bed’s not even finished and he doubts Box would appreciate being pounced on amidst a pile of loose screws. He slings back his tea, chokes on the scalding stuff and tries not to turn beet red when Box raises a wonky eyebrow over his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna go- find-” 

Box smiles, that sly thing that usually accompanies a backhanded compliment, but is somehow infuriatingly charming. 

“Biscuits!” George snapped, before legging it from the room. Box’s laughter follows, and he rolls his eyes whilst his heart thuds painfully in his chest. This is a wild fling, he insists, he won’t let that handsome jaw and nice smile worm their way into any _ feelings _. 

After some deep breathing and six digestives, he takes the pack back in and shares the rest with Box. They sit in silence again, till Box is almost done. The twisted metal and wooden panels finally resemble something akin to a bed.

“You gonna sort out the duvet?” Box asks, and George pouts. Last night they had slept under a blanket, and shared one pillow between them. If he had realised putting his bed together meant actually unpacking, he wouldn’t have suggested it. With a long suffering sigh, he nods and goes to haul them out of whichever box his mother hid them in. Most of the stuff here has been in storage since he moved out, and he hasn’t the foggiest where anything is. There’s a small amount of fear at the idea of opening them; once one mismatched box is opened, they all will be. It’s a mammoth task he doesn’t care to start, but supposes he has to. 

A good ten minutes of wrestling later he has pillows and almost as many pillow cases, and a duvet that mostly fits into the cover. Groaning under the weight of it all, he staggers back to the bedroom where Box is standing with his arms folded, looking rather pleased at his handiwork. 

He looks warily at the pile of walking bedlinen. 

“You’re a concern,” he says, yanking the duvet off the pile. A few sharp snaps of the fabric straightens it out, whilst George tosses the pillows down. Box moves to lay out the duvet, but George butts in before he can. 

“I don’t see the point in making it,” he says, sliding up behind Box and snatching the duvet from his hands. “We’re about to ruin it.” 

Box stills, and from the turn of his cheeks George knows he’s smiling. 

”Oh are we now?” 

George lets one hand fly to his joggers, and feels him up through them.

“If that’s the case,” Box all but growls, spinning on his heel and grabbing a handful of George. It elicits the most improper noise out of him, but shame goes out the window as fast as Box throws him against the mattress. They fool around for a while, though by the time they kick the sheets out of the way some of the heat has gone out. Putting beds together is tiring work, George says, and Box elbows him. 

“Like you helped at all,” he huffs, as George slides closer to him and buries his head in his chest. 

“I’ll do…. The wardrobe,” he mumbles against tanned skin. He feels Box’s disbelieving laugh more than hears it. 

“Yeah course you will.” 

Lifting his head barely an inch, George eyes him lazily. He’s got one hand propped behind his head, and is looking down at him with a half-smile on his face, eyes playful. It’s not the look of his DI, of the no-nonsense boss. It’s something different, personal. Something that starts up the hot, swirling feeling in George again. 

He leans up and catches him in another kiss, smiling against his cheek. 

“Well, you’ll just have to stick around and find out then, won’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

> i love them1!! so much|!!!!


End file.
